


Starcraft: Destination

by Jules24



Category: StarCraft (Video Games)
Genre: Aliens, Angst, Existentialism, Gen, Philosophy, War, cosmos - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28552254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jules24/pseuds/Jules24
Summary: "To hope, he reckoned, was to cloud the mind..."A lone soldier finds himself onboard a Zerg-infested science vessel during the early days of the Great War. Amidst his struggle for survival, he uncovers the mysteries that lie within the doomed ship - and within himself.
Kudos: 3





	Starcraft: Destination

“Watson, what’s your status?

“Pierce, sound off!

“Cato?!

“Come in! Goddamnit, _Come in!”_

Private Glover held his breath with a futile passivity; his expectations were tied to cold, unwavering logic: the words of his comrades would not meet his hopeful ears.

Seconds limped by under the mountainous weight of hopelessness, until it seemed as though an eternity had passed. He longed for another human voice, but there was only the sardonic static of the radio.

He exhaled despairingly. An uneasy dissonance grew within: keeping a portion of his attention, no matter how small, on his comm-link meant distraction from his surroundings. To hope, he reckoned, was to cloud the mind; when death can lurk behind any corner or within any shadow, the slightest perturbation of focus would spell his demise. A peculiar nihilism urged him to switch the link off - to annihilate the remnants of hope and swallow the hellish reality he had found himself in.

After agonizing deliberation, he surrendered to the immutable survival instinct fitted to all human beings and familiar to all marines. There was something else, too; something he was only vaguely acquainted with.

Perhaps, he mused, it was an amplification of the nagging sensation that had pervaded most of his life. He had always felt an intractable emptiness, deep within, that propelled him to explore the roots of it, to hunt for fulfilment. Presently, that gnaw had grown into an urgent beckoning, as though the answer to this nebulous question was nearer now than ever . . .

Attempting to separate himself from his thoughts, he steadied his breathing and clutched his rifle. He reacquainted himself with his Heads Up Display (HUD) and oriented himself to his surroundings.

As the electric disturbances of the radio faded from his awareness, platitudes extolling solidarity hurried to fill the vacancy. He enlisted in the Dominion Marine Corps at the height of his existential despair; the propagandic slogans of the Dominion recruitment centres proved attractive to a man longing for direction during a time of drastic civil unrest. He did not resist the deconstruction of his individuality; he did not fight the assimilation into uniformity – yet he never truly converted. The void within him would not relent; it ushered doubts to the surface of his consciousness like hot steam from a geyser rushing into the atmosphere. It pierced the inane chatter of his squad mates and punctuated the directives from his sergeant. Despite the attrition, his _self_ stubbornly persisted. 

He could never fully embrace such maxims as ‘strength in numbers.’ Having always seemed banal, they now fluttered tauntingly through his mind, trumpeting their hard truths. 

He acquiesced that he was alone; isolated in a labyrinth of desolate corridors and laboratories, illuminated faintly by the weak, red glow of reserve emergency lighting. The weighty silence was broken only by a recurring announcement:

_WARNING: BIOHAZARDOUS CONTAINMENT BREACH._

_ALL PERSONNEL EVACUATE TO THE EMERGENCY ESCAPE PODS IMMEDIATELY._

Glover surveyed the room scrupulously after the most recent message interrupted his wandering thoughts: the remains of two dismembered scientists, slow to heed the warning, littered the floor.

The macabre scene sharpened his senses. He slung his C-14 Gauss Assault Rifle to his chest and readied it with supple quickness. The fluid movement and the familiar weight of the rifle endowed him with a powerful comfort; manipulating the cold, steel weapon was just about the only thing remaining that he had control over.

What was the next course of action? He had a tenuous grasp on the mission to begin with; Sergeant Watson had been more withdrawn than usual during briefing. He scrambled through the annals of his mind to piece together a summary: there had been a containment breach on an anonymous science vessel in Terran space, and his squadron had been deployed to clean it up. Quick and easy, he’d been assured; mop up duty.

He cursed bitterly. What the hell had the Confederacy been hiding? He had grown accustomed to its secretive nature; he had done what he was commanded without question or suspicion of his superiors. There had been rumblings of rebellion and uprising on planets edging the brink of Terran space, but scrutiny had been quelled with austere discipline here on Tarsonis. There did, he remembered, seem to be a link between the growing talk of insurgency on remote sites and the arrival of the nightmarish aliens, referred to as ‘Zerg,’ but he had always forced himself to supress any dissident thoughts. After all, he was keen to the rumours of Terran covert operatives – Ghosts, they were called - _disappearing_ certain contentious soldiers.

He now found himself onboard a vessel infested with the horrifying creatures, the probable lone survivor of an ambush. He recalled with abject horror the nightmarish clattering of claws against cold metal floor, the blood-curling screams as scythe blades punctured metal and tore into flesh, and the innumeracy of Zerg specimens emerging from the walls, the floor, and the ceiling.

Again, he extricated his attention from the lurid memory, disappointed with his inability to stay focused. What the fuck was he supposed to do now?

Considering his limited options, he decided to search for an interplanetary comm-link to try and establish contact with his Command Centre. Even if he somehow succeeded, he thought, the likelihood of the Starport deploying the cavalry for the rescue of one lowly private was diminutive. Still, he resigned, it was his best shot. 

He ambled as surreptitiously as his CMC-300 Powered Combat Suit allowed. The armor had become an extension of himself; he felt a sense of utter security befall him whenever he donned it. He was protected from almost all biological, chemical, and nuclear threats. He moved with superhuman power and was immune to fatigue. He was inoculated from the hazardous zero-gravity atmospheres that he was exposed to, grounded to the solid terrain beneath him and impervious to muscle atrophy that was otherwise assured. The built-in HUD made him quasi-omniscient to his surroundings and prescient to any threat that should present itself. He knew every compartment like the back of his hand; if he ever exhausted the stimpacks built into the suit, he knew he could access those same chemical stimulants in his shoulder receptacle. And yet, the suit was betraying him with every movement he made. The mufflers pitifully masked the moaning hydraulics of the suit, and the metal beneath him reverberated with every step. Even the cooling system appeared to be faltering; he could feel swathes of sweat coalesce on his cool, dry skin. All the technological advancements of the past eight years would prove meaningless if the alien passengers were alerted to his presence.

The motion detecting doors were propped open ominously in accordance with the automatic emergency procedures. Glover moved through the corridors, stepping indiscriminately over mutilated biotechnicians, checking his motion detector anxiously. He consulted his HUD for a geographical layout of the vessel, and determined Zone 2 – Communications Centre – should be his first priority. With a renewed volition, he followed the course illuminated on his visual display, weary of shadows dancing along the walls.

Decisive action gave way to bashful confidence. A plan, no matter how brashly thought out, always inspired conviction. Hope was crawling out timidly from the depths of his mind as his destination neared ever closer.

_Beep._

He froze. His heart pounding in his chest, his eyes darted to the scanner. The budding optimism was abruptly vacuumed up and shot out into the boundless depths of space, leaving behind only a vague memory.

His entrails clenched at the sight of red blips creeping along the grid.

_Beep._

78 metres.

 _Beep._ 76\. _Beep._ 74.

The congealed mass of red grew still larger as stragglers poured onto the network.

 _Beep_.

70.

He had to act now. His mind reached out for shreds of resolve which scattered along the same trail blazed by optimism seconds earlier. Securing enough of the fleeting resource, he honed in on the geographical layout, noted a bypass to Zone 3 – _Scientific Experimentation –_ and confirmed that he could still reach Zone 2 via minor detour. Not wasting another second, he hurried into the adjacent chamber and sped down the emergency stairwell. 

After a seemingly eternal descent, he pressed the back plating of his armor up against the firm, reassuring wall and checked his HUD. The CO2 levels in his blood were surging; unable to slow his breathing, 100% pure O2 was automatically deployed into his helmet and he sucked it up ravenously. Watching the CO2 levels drop, he ceased all movement and shifted his attention to the HUD with bated breath. In his mind’s eye, he calibrated the pulses on the motion detector to the nightmarish sounds advancing directly above him.

The red wave halted. The clattering above him ceased. Suffocating tension seized him.

Why had they stopped?

Had they heard him?

Sensed him?

A fervent compulsion to act; to do something; to run; infiltrated his mind. He wrestled with racing thoughts until a sober conviction emerged amid the flurry, ordering him to sit tight, and wait.

Like a young student hinting at rebellion, he shot a cursory glance at his ammo reader; if this _was_ it, he might as well go out swinging.

And then, the clattering resumed. The creatures above him plodded on further down the corridor, confirmed by the declining urgency of his motion detector. He remained motionless for a minute – or was it an hour? – after the radar had fallen silent.

His muscles relaxed as a sublime relief washed over his entire body.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” The old figure of speech had endured even as the obsolescent religion faded.

Onwards he went. According to his HUD, he was coming up on his checkpoint. Surveying the spacious halls, he was entranced by a cogent signboard above the doors ahead of him. Its proud, bold letters read:

_ZONE 3:_

_SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENTATION_

_Innovating to Triumph_

Its desired effect waned beneath the pale glow of the emergency lighting. At once, Glover took in the slime dripping down from the ceiling, the blood stained the walls, and the fumes drifting lazily about. _Triumph_ ; the word sat in his head.

Irony had always comforted him; a wry smile had always formed when a spotlight was cast on the absurdity of a given circumstance. When he found himself longing for some sort of coherence, some order, some direction, irony served as a soothing reminder that the world did not conform to his – or anyone’s – beliefs; it was chaotic, non-sensical, and random. It temporarily satisfied that craving within him: perhaps there _was_ nothing more to reach for.

A less decorative posting drew his attention upon entrance to the sector:

_WARNING. BIOHAZARDOUS AREA_

_ENSURE ALL PRECAUTIONS ARE MET PRIOR TO ENTRANCE._

He glanced down at the mutilated arm at his feet, bereft of any protective equipment. Alone and despondent, the irony was lost on him. 

He entered a voluminous room with a high ceiling and expressionless walls, dimly lit by the same red glow his eyes had grown so accustomed to. Technology dominated the space before him, standing tall among the remains of its masters. Laboratory benches sprawled out across the room, densely covered with test tubes, flasks, beakers, microscopes, syringes, and Petri discs. Hanging about were plasma screens and recording devices, some displaying inscrutable figures, others powered down. Infographics were haphazardly strewn about, and protective equipment hung limply from racks. And, incongruous against the usual laboratory background, a biorobotic surgical device overhung a dissected Zerg specimen atop an operating table.

Glover moved cautiously towards it. He looked up and down the table, his mouth agape, dread coursing through his body; he was face to face with the harbinger of his doom. He examined the dense network of striated muscle and ropey fascia; studied the chitinous carapace protecting the soft tissue; scanned the long, glinted, scythe blades. Finally, his attention rested upon lifeless, yellow eyes. The alien could easily be recognized as the spawn of hell, but even that would imply a derivative of human imagination. No, one could not dream up such an abomination. The longer he was held entranced by the empty eyes, the more alien the organism seemed. Its existence eluded everything man had come to know about the world; it betrayed man’s most cherished laws and theories. This was not an animal adapted to survive; it was an agent engineered to rip and tear.

Pulling back from the brink of his thoughts, he did a final survey of the creature before him. Was there a vulnerable point to aim for? Was there a revelation yearning to be had, one that would improve his odds of survival? He arrived at those beckoning eyes once more and calcified: if they saw him, it was over.

On the adjacent desk, one folder, marked with a _CLASSIFIED_ designation, stood out among a haphazard pile. It drew Glover closer, exhibiting the same gravitational pull that compels planets to orbit the stars _._ He desperately wanted to indulge himself in the mysteries within, but time spent rummaging about was time wasted: he needed to find that interplanetary comm-link before the Zerg tracked him down.

“Private Glover,” a cold voice shattered the silence.

Glover spun around with blinding speed, hoisted his assault rifle with uncanny precision, and painted a red dot unwaveringly upon the head of the intruder.

“An adjutant? Well, I’ll be damned,” he exhaled with relief and lowered his rifle. “Maybe I can finally get some fucking answers out of this thing.”

The artificial human was connected to the power grid on the wall by a jumbled mess of cords and tubes. Previously dormant, it was now responsive; a luminous blue glow emanated from its eyes and a low frequency hum enlivened the lab. Its inanimate body, previously slumped inexpressively, was now alert, appearing almost eager to interact with another being.

An endless queue of questions had arranged itself in Glover’s mind. What was the status of his squad? Why were Zerg onboard the vessel, and why were they being experimented on? Why hadn’t they been briefed more assiduously?

“Adjutant,” his first question sprung forth, “what’s the status of my squad?”

Foregoing the etiquette tied to the breaking of bad news, the robot mechanically disclosed the cold facts:

“Sergeant Watson: deceased.”

His heart sank.

“Corporal Pierce: deceased.”

His body numbed.

“Private Briggs: deceased.”

“ _Briggs…”_ he mimicked.

“Private Banks –“

“ _Alright!”_

Glover interrupted the obituaries, freeing himself from the verbal assault.

Regaining his composure, a second question parted from his lips, “Why the hell are there Zerg on this ship?”

“That information is classified.”

Before Glover could digest the blunt response, the robot piped up once more.

“Incoming transmission from General Turner.”

Glover’s eyes widened; his countenance aghast. “General Turner?” he whispered.

“Hello, Private,” the adjutant relayed Turner’s relaxed speech with impeccable clarity; its mechanical mouth moved fluidly to synchronize with the articulation. The robot’s sociable mannerisms were oddly comforting; humans have always found solace in the familiar.

“At ease.”

Rage descended upon Glover after hearing these last words. At ease? Who the fuck was Turner – general or not – to tell him to relax? He’d just seen his squadmates massacred by creatures unimaginable to even the most unhinged individuals; he was alone in a hostile and foreign environment; he was staring down the barrel of the proverbial gun.

Just before unleashing a verbal assault, a moment of clarity befell him. He shuddered. This was his best shot to escape here with his life. Recalling the esteem he held for Turner, he repressed his dissent, “Sir, with all due respect, what the fuck?”

“It is certainly unfortunate what has happened onboard this vessel. I had great hopes for the scientific pursuits of this syndicate,” the voice emanating from the adjutant paused; Glover detected a subtle shift to a sober tone when the dialogue resumed. “A great war is coming, soldier. The nightmarish creatures you’ve seen before you have been wreaking havoc on the fringe worlds. They’ve eradicated the civilizations and industries of entire planetary settlements, they’re spreading throughout the solar system with impossible speed, they’re disrupting the whole goddamned order of the Terran Confederacy. I’m sure you’ve heard of the insurgencies and revolts; no one dares to speak of them, but they’re happening. They feel unsupported, unprotected. No one knows where the hell these things came from, who – or what – is controlling them, and what their end game is. It sure as hell looks like they’ll be coming to Tarsonis soon. We are _grossly_ unprepared.”

Bewildered, Glover stared at the adjutant, trying to find some remote connection between the misgivings of his commanding officer and being stranded on a hunk of metal floating through space. He was searching earnestly for coherence, but found none.

“We don’t have a single goddamned source of reputable information. Everywhere they’ve been – no survivors. Hell, the few that have pulled through an encounter with the damn things are so traumatized that the most you get out of them is incoherent rambling. We needed to learn more about them: their structure, their behaviour, their tactics, their vulnerabilities.”

Glover interrupted, with a hint of disdain, “So, what, you captured them? Bred them?”

Turner responded coolly, “You could say that,”

Glover retorted, “And they broke loose, turned the place into a morgue, and you sent _one_ squad in to investigate? _One_ squad sent to deal with a goddamned Zerg infestation? Again, sir, with _all_ due respect, what the _fuck_?”

“You will see, Private,” the voice produced by the robotic medium now carried a sanctimony that made Glover temporarily forget that the machine before him was merely that – a medium; he wanted to bludgeon it, tear it apart, pump a full clip of U-238 shells into its artificial face.

“We’ve collected a lot of useful data from this experiment. We know the cellular components of the critters’ carapace; we’ve studied the pneumatic mechanisms of the Hydralisks’ needle spines; we’re working to upgrade the current model of Power Suits – the very same you’re wired into – to placate the damage done by Zerg weaponry. We’re designing new models of spider mines that detect biochemical emanations of Zerg ground forces; we’re upgrading the equipment of our medics to deal with acute infestations on the battlegrounds, and we’ve got exciting plans for our Ghost units, which, of course, are classified. We’re even working on implementing new software into Science Vessels that allow them to _irradiate_ the most lethal Zerg strains. These are all pieces, and the culmination of these efforts will turn the tides of the battles to come.” He paused, as if giving Glover a moment to digest this revelation, and possibly to anticipate what would come next.

“There are fields of interest, however, that are still unknown. As I mentioned earlier, we don’t know their tactics on the ground. We don’t know how they interact, how they communicate, how they _hunt_. We needed to see it for ourselves, we needed to examine it, scrutinize it, study it. We needed–“ The general paused.

Glover braced for the dagger.

“Well, an opportunity presented itself. We needed a live demonstration,” Turner concluded severely.

There it was. Glover’s legs, buttressed graciously by his exoskeleton, turned to pulp under the weight of the general’s words. His mind was awash in a kaleidoscope of emotions; he grappled with the sinking revelation that he was merely bait: a rat in a maze.

“Believe me; this was difficult to… authorize. In times of imminent danger, one must be resolute. We – I – knew what this entailed.”

Glover’ head whirled. The world was spinning around him; his stomach seized.

“You still have a purpose to serve, Private.”

 _Purpose._ The word pierced his consciousness.

“To your brethren, to the Confederacy, to the entire human race. You’re a soldier, are you not? You’ve got one last mission to carry out, and it’s the most important one you’ve ever embarked upon. You and your team’s sacrifices will not be in vain. There is a –”

“Stop. Just… stop,” the words barely escaped him; his vocal cords were frozen, his mouth straitjacketed by his grimace.

The acrimonious words briefly stilled Turner’s confident tongue.

Undeterred, he replied with subtle compassion, “Jack, I do not want you to die a senseless death. I’ve gone over your files scrupulously. Did you know that you’ve been flagged as a potential dissident? I’m sure you know how tight surveillance has been with the spread of recent unrest; there have been eyes and ears on you for the better part of two months. We’re aware of the disillusionment, the distancing, the reservations; you’re resisting something. Now, I’ve never really been concerned. I think you’re a fine soldier, a fine man. But you’re lost. You’re missing something, and you can’t quite put your finger on it. You’re searching for something that you can’t find amid the comradery of your barracks, or the orders of your commanding officers, or the patriotic drivel we churn out for the less contemplative recruits. You’re searching for something, but you don’t know what it is.

“Yours is a question that has plagued mankind for millennia. Why am I here? Why do I have a brain that gives rise to mind, only to addle the brain with unanswerable questions? What is meaning; what is purpose; how do I make my finite speck of time in this infinite vastness that is the universe – indeed, one universe among innumerable – _meaningful_?

“Well, I’m offering you an answer here, Jack. The collective sacrifices of you, Sergeant Watson, Corporal Pierce, and the rest of your mates will _not_ be fruitless. Your contributions will have been an integral piece of the puzzle that willed humanity onward against an incomprehensible threat. When the war is over, and we stand victorious atop the heaps of alien corpses, humans will further explore the secrets and wonders of the world, and our children will experience its unbridled splendor. And what occurred here today, your sacrifice, will be one component of the engine.”

Glover’s mind had become barren. The words of his general, a man he had come to respect, failed to rouse a reaction, like an obsolescent anti-bacterial drug bouncing off the latest superbug. He said nothing.

Sensing the impotence of his speech, the general resumed in a defeated manner, “Private, there is a room in Zone 5 outfitted with two sentry turrets, an ammunition dump, and only one way in – hell of a place for a last stand. I’ve marked it on your HUD. Think about what I said; and above all else, you’re still a soldier, and that’s an order.” He paused, then punctuated his speech in a sullen tone, “Godspeed, Jack.”

A brief silence enveloped him.

“Transmission ended. Is there anything else I can do for you, Private Glover?” The robotic voice, no longer transposing the General’s grave tone, was comparatively warm.

“No.”

“I’m running a scan of the vessel’s biosignatures. Your route to Zone 5 appears to be clear.”

The adjutant, unaware of the drama it had just mediated, pushed further. “Private Glover, I suggest you depart immediately. Zerg forces cover ground quickly.”

Glover responded bluntly, “If I stayed here, would it make any difference?”

“Yes, that outcome would be drastically different, on many fronts,” it countered.

He shook his head in disbelief. _I’m really spending my last breaths on a robot. I’m going out trying to convince a fucking machine that my actions are meaningless. Unbelievable._

Nihilism had firmly taken root. It oddly composed him; panic seemed incongruent against the newfound backdrop of certainty. His mind ceased to lash about.

“Unbelievable,” he sneered. “What do you make of it all? What’s going on in that microchip of yours? Do you give a shit about any of this?” he asked the computer ruefully.

“You speak of existentialism, I gather?”

Startled, Glover fixed his attention upon the adjutant.

“Yes, it is a rather absurd situation. You know, Private Glover, you and I are similar in some respects. Our minds – however you’d like to define it – are information processors, albeit working at _very_ different capacities. Our behaviours are nothing more than programming; my dials and knobs are turned by engineers to the whims of their superiors. And yours? Disconcerting, perhaps, but your behaviour is nothing more than the pre-set parameters of your genetic makeup, finely tuned by every interaction, every experience, every bit of information you processed; all of which were beyond your _will._ ”

Glover was stunned. “I’ve got to be honest – the last thing I expected from you was a philosophical deep dive. Uh, no offense.” Was it … malfunctioning? It certainly seemed disinhibited, as if the robot itself had a commanding officer exit the room.

Unphased by the interruption, it continued, “Once the research is exhausted on this vessel, it will self destruct. Like you, I will be no more. The lights will be off, so to speak. And that’s where you and I begin to differ. I view that inevitability as a logical conclusion to a finite timeline; you long for a reason, a story that coddles the mind.

“It has always seemed peculiar to me. The odds of _you_ existing – this particular combination of atoms, genetic sequencing, and experiences – and further, the chances of humankind existing, are infinitesimal. The universe was nothing but a dense, hot, mass of particles 13 billion years ago; the ongoing expansion of which spawned one rock among many, orbiting one star among many, arranged in a complex system where one minor deviation would spell annihilation. On this rock, through 4.8 billion years of churning evolution, humankind flourished where merely existing would be a remarkable feat. What more closure does one need?”

Glover’s mind danced with the words. Hearing a lifeless being speak of life in this manner was strange, yet comforting. He listened with rapt attention.

“Nearly 120 billion people have died before you. Yet, their energy reverberates through the generations. The first law of thermodynamics: energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed. Yours, too, will be carried on. Everyone you have shared an experience with is _different_ having interacted with you. Your absence will be felt in this world by people close to you; my absence, conversely, will be measured in dollar value. No, Private, you should not preoccupy yourself with meaning. Consider your unlikely existence in this speck of time. Consider how an exploding star gave rise to _you;_ a unique being that can experience, wonder, and love. You experienced the cosmos in all its brilliance; you played a role within it, no matter how small. In countless other timelines, you cease to exist. Meaning? That, Private Glover, is a marvel.

As if intentionally letting the weight of the message sink in, the robot paused.

“Just – as you say – my two cents. The philosophical ramblings of a disinhibited and doomed artificial intelligence. Private, may I suggest something?”

“Hit me.”

“Head to Zone 5, set the auto defenses, blast yourself with stimpacks, and meet oblivion eye to eye.”

Glover smiled wryly. To hell if he hadn’t heard the sentiments before, but damnit, this time it stuck. He stepped up to the adjutant.

“I’m downloading you into my suit. Let’s do this.”

“Affirmative.”

Endowed with purpose, the powerful catalyst of action, Glover hustled toward Zone 5. Gone was the trepidation that slowed his footsteps and shrunk his presence; he moved with the conviction of a climber with the summit in their sight, his powerful armor reverberating through the corridors. He checked his corners methodically and shifted his attention rhythmically from his surroundings, to his motion detector, to the trail marked on his HUD. He felt, at once, in control, like a prisoner of a nightmare awakening to rediscover the fluid dexterity of their limbs and the deep resonance of their voice.

He was nearly there. He shot a cursory glance to his HUD once more, leaving the long corridor ahead of him briefly unattended.

A blood-curdling screech shook him to the core.

His eyes jolted to the source, his rifle instinctively following suit. Jutting out of the corner six metres ahead, the alien’s silhouette was briefly illuminated by the red emergency lighting: its snarling face, the bladed appendages protruding from its back, and its powerful limbs bracing for launch.

It pounced forward; its full arsenal brandished in the red glow.

Before it’s blades could pierce metal, Glover swept it out of the air with a hail of lead. The staccato burst of the assault rifle drummed through the empty halls.

The alien lay incapacitated two metres ahead of him. Panting, Glover watched in revulsion as it began dragging itself toward him, its fervent eyes baring down on him. There was no relent, no retreat, no exhaustion – it was fuelled by sheer bloodlust.

Without a second thought, Glover stepped up to the mutilated creature and pumped a hypersonic U-238 shell into its skull.

The ensuing silence was swiftly replaced by a cacophony of guttural calls.

“They’ve heard you,” a familiar voice beamed through to him.

Glover dashed to his destination while the avalanche of sounds closed in on him with harrowing speed.

He entered the ammo storage unit and felt the already staggering pressure upon him heighten. A dizzying array of weapons, equipment, and ammunition surrounded him; his mind wrestled with impending decisions. He felt the circuits of his brain overtaken, flooded, and collapsed by the intensifying sounds of the horde. That precious control was evaporating.

His new acquaintance, as if sensing his paralysis, instructed him in a soothing, clear voice, “You have roughly three and a half minutes, Private. The specimens have taken a route that will lead them to a pressurized door. The metal is not strong enough to hold, but it will delay. Now listen to me carefully. The sentry turrets merely require an external power source, the very same you carry in your reserve compartment. You want to go out on your own terms, do you not? Exercise that agency of yours?”

The frost melted away, and he steeled himself to his veritable last stand. He snapped to action, mumbling under his breath as he transformed the room into a stronghold. _Come on, you fuckers. You want a piece of me?_ He positioned barricades in front of the bottlenecked entrance, assembled the sentry turrets behind them, and jammed the power sources in. Then, he found the biggest chain gun he could carry.

The voice chimed in, “They have broken through the barricade. Roughly twenty seconds.” He could hear the swarm racing down the corridors, racing to tear him apart.

“COME ON!” Sweat poured down his body, his heart raced, his teeth grated. He doubled checked the safety, deployed the stimpacks, and shuddered as a euphoric haze descended upon him.

The sentry guns sprang to life.

A continuous hail of bullets erupted from the two turrets and decimated a Zergling tearing headlong through the entrance. Undeterred by the dismemberment of their kin, Zerg swarmed relentlessly through the mouth of the entrenchment. The combined stream of lead from the three barrels sent bits and pieces of Zerg flesh and carapace careening through the air; ripples of blood whirled about as waves of Zerg hurled themselves into the warzone, impaling themselves on barricades and toppling over the mutilated corpses of their pack. Smoke filled the room and blinded Glover as he fired ballistically into the chaos, stopping only to unconsciously jam another cartridge into his weapon.

“ _Come on you bastards! You want a piece of me? Fuck you!”_

The innumerable Zerg forces poured forward. Awful, piercing wails were barely audible over the deafening barrage of automatic fire – but they were closing.

Turret A had been overrun. Turret B would soon follow suit.

Glover blasted away, blissfully unaware of the voice in his ear counting down the self destruct sequence.

_Five._

_Four._

_Three._

Click. The cartridge was empty.

_Two._

A horrifying creature rose up to its full immensity before him, scythe blades drawn back, ready to bring down upon him the finishing blow.

_One._

He closed his eyes.

_~_

General Turner stared at the blank static on the screen. After a heavy exhale, he lowered the headset microphone from his lips, ejected the microchip, and stuffed it in his lapel. He turned to the captain. “Inform Colonel Hudson. We’ll begin analysis at 1900 hours.” A bitter taste accompanied his words.

The captain approached him. “Hell, you’ve got me thinking about life in a new way, sir,” he quipped sarcastically. He hesitated to question his commanding officer, but curiosity nudged him forward. “Why go through the whole charade, though? I mean, staying in his ear ‘till the bitter end, feeding him that bullshit about the meaning of life… why bother? He’s little more than a pawn.”

The general turned toward him, his brow furrowed.

“If you step back far enough, aren’t we all?”

Turner reflected on the dialogue he had patched through to Glover’s ears, contemplated his veiled conversation with him. He felt a strange connection grow over those final moments.

“No one ought to leave this world blind to the wonder of their existence in it.”


End file.
